


Faces in the street

by Michaelssw0rd



Series: 30 prompts. [4]
Category: Inception (2010), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate universe- dream sharing, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Inception AU, John Needs A Hug, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Harold Finch and John Reese are in the dream-sharing business. Harold is the architect, and John runs point. They make an excellent team, except John refuses to ever enter the dream as a subject- he has pretty good reasons for that. (You don't need to have seen Inception to understand this story. I will explain the basic things in notes. But you will probably enjoy it more if you have.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, quick explanations:  
> -Govt invented a way with which multiple people could enter a dream, and share it, using a device called PASIV. It was used as a training program, to fight, kill and be killed multiple times, within the dreams. The criminal side of dream-sharing enters the dream of a Mark, and steal his/her secrets.  
> -Architects design the dreamscape.  
> -A dreamer can make changes in the dream, all of the sleepers can change small things, but dreamers have more wide range.  
> -The subject/subjects bring their subconscious in the dream... all the people around are the projections of those subconscious.  
> -Pain in the dream feels real; but when you die in the dream, you wake up in the real world.
> 
> I think that's everything important needed to understand the story.

John was an outstanding point-man.

He was thorough, followed the Mark and everyone related to them for days before a job; broke into their houses and found information that always proved invaluable to the mission. Weapons were a second nature to him, and within a dream, he could create them out of thin air. His hand never wavered, his gun steady, as he shot projection after projection, making sure the rest of the team made it out of dream alive. Reliable, within a dream and outside it. Sometimes, when Miss Shaw was busy with some other job, he could do more than an adequate job as an extractor as well. John Reese, was essential to any mission’s success, as far as Harold was concerned.

Yet, in some respects he was not very easy to deal with. More specifically, in just one respect: he always insisted on being the dreamer.

“No.”

“Mr. Reese. Please think about it reasonably. I am the architect, and this job needs us to manipulate the dreamscape on the go, depending on the reactions of the Mark. While I admire how stable you can hold the dream, it would be more prudent for me to be the dreamer, so I could change things if necessary.”

“Then just let me know what changes we need to do, I will memorize as many different versions as you want. But I am not going under as a subject.” Reese’s face was resolute, ready to shoot down any arguments.

“It does not work like that,” Finch protested exasperatedly.

“It’s either this, or we go under for two levels. I dream the first, and you can be the dreamer in the second.”

“That’s complicating the job unnecessarily. We would need to involve Fusco and maybe even Miss Groves, when you, I and Miss Shaw will be more than adequate for a one level extraction.”

“I don’t care Finch. We do this, or I sit this one out. I will run point, until the part where we go under,” John declared. It was clear from his tone that this was the end of the debate.

Harold just threw up his hands and walked away from the warehouse, refusing to look back. It was frustrating to deal with Mr. Reese when he refused to see reason. Why was he so adamant about not being the subject of dreams… ever? Finch suspected it might have something to do with his past- an ex CIA agent would probably have a subconscious they did not like revisiting; but for God’s sake, everyone in dream sharing had skeletons in their closet. He surely had some. You don’t see Harold stubbornly refusing to relive a few bitter memories that came with familiar faces of projections, do you? Not when it would help a mission.

In the end… they ended up doing what Reese had suggested. Fusco- their chemist, agreed to go under with them in level one, and Miss Shaw had to run both point, and extractor in the second dream. Everything went well. Their Mark- a Mr. Simpson, a lawyer with a paranoid personality, was left sleeping in his living room, the information about what he had against their employer for the upcoming case successfully extracted.

“Congratulations Finch.” Reese smiled tentatively at him when they were walking away from the Mark’s house. Fusco had already left, the moment they had removed PASIV from his arm. He hated the effect of Somnacin- even though he manufactured it- and preferred to drink away the headache.

“Good work Mr. Reese.” Finch nodded curtly. He was still slightly miffed about their argument before.

“Okay. I am off boss. I got an empty bed and a bottle of booze waiting for me back home.” Shaw walked past them briskly, barely looking at them as she talked, and turned just enough to pass them a wink.  “Good job today.”

“Good job Miss Shaw. I will call you when we have something new.” Harold gave a barely there smile, but it was enough.

They walked for a while, and stopped by a coffee shop. Somnacin did leave a lingering headache, but Harold had been used to it by now, because of dreaming so often. Coffee helped. Sipping on their beverage, they ambled around the sidewalk of New York, directionless.

“I am sorry,” John said all of a sudden.

Harold did not bother asking what for. He knew. All he said was, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“You’re right. It’s not. But I can’t tell you how to deal with your conscience and past. I am not a therapist. You should see one, maybe.”

“Who says I am not already seeing one?”

“You are?” Harold turned and looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah. But that’s not why I can’t be the subject. I can handle my subconscious. I simply refuse to subject anyone else to it,” he said with such confidence that Harold gaped.

“That’s ridiculous. We have dealt with all kind of militarized subconscious before. I have once been eaten by a shark in a dream- it was a marine biologist- but that’s off topic. What I am saying is yours can’t be possibly be any worse.”

“Oh. You have no idea.” Reese smiled bitterly as he sipped the coffee.

* * *

 

When you have been doing the job long enough, you find out that there are a chosen few individuals that you can call ‘ _your people._ ’

Mr. Reese was Harold’s people.

Dream sharing teaches you paranoia. That’s the only way to survive to be very honest, and you protect yourself by being wary of everyone and everything. Where you sleep, is especially sacred, because it’s where you are at your most vulnerable. ‘ _Only the paranoid survive_ ’ may as well be the motto of this business.

Which is why, it was an honor for Harold to know where Mr. Reese lived. The amount of faith that showed, the knowledge that he trusted him with not taking advantage, was staggering. Harold respected his privacy, he really did…

But the situation was bad.

The last job they did, for a company named Northern Lights, had gone according to plan. They extracted detailed information- almost stalker-like- about a seemingly unimportant guy, his sightings from different traffic cameras, his credit card receipts, his phone conversations, and delivered them to the employer. It was a job well done, until Harold realized that the company did not want any loose ends. Mr. Cole- a guy they sometimes hired to go under with them on more complicated jobs- was dead, and Miss Shaw had called the team to inform them to go into hiding. Except, she had told Harold that she had been unable to reach John.

Finch had tried to call him half a dozen times, until fear gripped his heart. What if he was too late already? He was sitting in the car and driving towards John’s apartment before he even considered that it might be a breach of privacy.

The door was locked, but there was really no alarm system that Harold couldn’t hack- and he had helped in choosing this one, so that made it easier. He was hit by a sudden thought that this wasn’t appropriate but he paid it no heed. If there was a chance that Mr. Reese was badly hurt- not dead, he can’t be dead, Harold refused to even entertain that thought- Finch would bear through the fallout that came from this invasion of privacy.

Opening the door, barely five minutes after arriving, he jerked open the door and limped towards the stairs. Everything was eerily quiet, and nobody answered him when he called out.

“Anybody here?” He limped into the main hall, and it was completely undisturbed, the blinds on the wall length windows closed. There was no sign of struggle. “Mr. Reese.” Reaching his bedroom door he called out one more time, “John, are you in there?”

Still receiving no answer, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. The first thing he felt was relief, because John was lying in bed, and there was no blood around him. In just a few seconds though, dread overcame relief because John had always been an incredibly light sleeper and would’ve woken up the moment Harold even started tampering with the lock downstairs.

That’s when he noticed the Asian guy sitting on the chair next to the bed, and cursed his tunnel vision, as he abruptly realized what was happening. There was a PASIV open on the floor, a needle in both their arms.

This was an extraction.

“Fuck.” Finch found himself cursing. Terrible, this was a terrible situation. There could be any number of organizations interested in getting information that the magnificent brain of John Reese contained. His hand inched towards the gun in his pocket, but he had never taken a life outside of dream world. He realized he could just give Mr. Reese the kick and they can burn this safe house and run, but Harold knew this wasn’t just a safe house for John. This was as close as it got to home.

There really wasn’t another choice. He had already crossed a line, what was taking a few more steps?

Bending down, he pulled another tube out of the machine, and adjusted himself to sit comfortably on the other chair- no reason to risk pain when he wakes up. He wiped his cubital fossa with a disinfectant and introduced the needle.

_It was an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. There was not a soul in sight. In dreams, he did not have the limp. Finch always dreamt himself as he was seven years ago, before the military program he was helping with in developing and perfecting the PASIV decided they could do without his and Nathan’s help and blew up the ship they had planned a trip to celebrate on. He had turned towards the criminal side of dream sharing in spite. The ease of moving, the comfort of having no pain, never failed to be a joy._

_Stepping over rubble, he could not place where this was supposed to be. Extractors usually created complicated modern facilities, to put in a safe they can crack. This looked like more like a…_

_Finch froze._

_This looked like a place where you brought your victim for torture._

_As if on cue, he heard a scream. Finch would know this voice anywhere, he had been living with it in his ear for the last three years, almost constantly. In all of that time, he had never heard him scream in such agony. Without conscious thought, he started running, jumping over obstacles and broken rubble on the ground, ducking through the half collapsed walls, and pushing on unhinged doors. Finally he reached a corridor where he could hear voices, and slowed down._

_“You deserve this.” A female voice sneered, and as he turned a corner he saw back of four people, one female and three male, converged over someone._

_“Yes.” Finch’s heart almost stopped. The defeat in Reese’s voice was startling._

_“Don’t fight it, you know it’s what you want.” Another venomous voice said, and then a man moved forward and did something that made Reese cry out again._

_The movement opened up a view that made Harold want to throw up. He had seen a whole lot of bad in his life, but this was something else. It may also be because this was John!_

_In the middle of a half destroyed room, John Reese sat, his arms and legs tied securely to a chair, a rope binding his chest and thighs to the back and the seat of chair as well, making all movement impossible. His naked chest was littered with more cuts and gashes than Finch could count, skin ripped away in places, the smell of burnt skin in the air making it obvious that knife wounds weren’t all he had. In Harold’s line of vision was one of John’s hand and he had to put his fist against his mouth to stop himself from screaming: all of the fingers were cut till the second knuckle, and more than just five digits lying on the ground near him- pieces. His torturers had cut them in pieces, prolonging the pain._

_“Do you want to die?” The girl from before asked, and she swayed to a side so Harold could see John’s face. Pain was etched in his every pore. He nodded weakly._

_“Too bad. You haven’t paid enough yet. We can do this for a long long time.” She spoke in sadistic joy, as if torturing someone was a pleasure._

_Man number three, a boy really, long limbed and thin, moved and pulled on John’s hair, as he swiped the knife harshly. A howl of pain ripped out of Reese’s chest as his earlobe was cut clean off of his person._

_“What do you say to that huh?” The boy asked sweetly._

_“Thank you.” Reese muttered to Harold’s horror, and then it became a mantra ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’_

_When the girl moved again with purpose, a bone crusher in her hand, Harold had enough._

_“Stop,” he shouted. His voice came out trembling and hoarse, but it was enough to startle the torturers._

_“NO.” Reese suddenly screamed. “No. No, no, no! You can’t be here. You can’t.”_

_“Mr. Reese. I am here to get you out. I am sorry I didn’t realize they were after you.”_

_“Nobody is after me. You need to go. You can’t be here. You can’t.” He seemed delirious with anxiety as he tossed his head from side to side._

_It was too late though, the people who held Mr. Reese captive were turning, and Harold stared at them in terror. The woman, she had an obvious bullet wound on her forehead. The young boy, had multiple holes in his abdomen, as if shot with a close range shot gun. The other two men had distorted faces, and many injuries on their person. If these were projections of the Asian man sitting in the chair in Reese’s apartment, that man had some serious mental problems._

_This was all he thought of, before the woman lunged at him. He tried to duck, but she managed to embed her finger nails on his face, dragging. A man ran at him with the knife and plunged it straight in his heart, and Harold had a split second to feel relieved because this meant he would wake up faster. The man took the knife out and plunged it again and again, and between the quick blood loss and the pain, he managed to look at John one last time, and see his face contorted in horror, his lips shaping the word, “Harold…” as welcome numbness and darkness enveloped him._

He woke up with a scream that died halfway in his throat. Nausea roiled in his gut and he scurried to the side of the room and started retching, his meager stomach contents emptying out but his body still trying to force the very heart of him out through his throat. The phantom sensation of nails digging into his face, of plunging knife, made him shudder. He rummaged in his pocket once the retching stopped, collapsing on the floor. When his fingers found the cuff link- his totem- and rubbed on the engraving of H.W on its surface- in a dream it was always smooth- his breath evened out a bit.

A minute later, the Asian guy’s eyelids started fluttering, his body moving in a way that showed he was about to wake up. With speed Harold did not know he had, he stood up, and before the man had even oriented himself, he had him shoved against the wall, a gun to his forehead.

“What kind of twisted subconscious was that? No. Never mind. What did you want with Mr. Reese?” The man blinked at him with confusion and he shoved the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead, making his eyes go wide. “Answer me? What did you want with him? Why were you torturing him?”

“Hey man. Hey.” The guy raised both his hands in surrender, trying to back off but the wall made that impossible. “I have no idea what you mean yeah? Calm down, would you?”

“I saw it. I saw enough. That’s a sick way of extraction. Nobody uses it anymore. I wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t tell me what you did with Mr. Reese.”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“The hell you didn’t. Seriously, you need a psychiatrist with what fucked up things your brain has going on, but a bullet would cure it too I am sure.” Harold did not know his heart could even contain so much fury.

“Fuck you man. I _am_ a psychiatrist.” The man said in his annoying voice.

“What?” Harold gaped. The hand with the gun falling a little in shock.

“Let him go Finch.” A tired voiced spoke from behind him, and he whipped around to see John was awake, was propping himself on the pillows and taking the IV line out of his arm, not showing any hint of the fact that he was being butchered a while back.

“What?” he repeated intelligently.

“That wasn’t his subconscious.” Reese looked at him with resigned eyes for a second, and then spoke to his lap. “It was mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculo…” he started saying, at the same time as the Asian guy still standing with his back pressed to the wall says, “See. I was just rendering a service.”

Finch turned and stared at the man, and then glanced back at John, eyes going from one to another, trying to make sense of things.

“Leon. You can go,” John said at length to the guy he went under with. “We will meet at the next session.”

“Hey now. I don’t get paid for being manhandled by misguided people. Who is to say I will show up next time.”

“You will show up.” Reese threw him a glare. “I will pay you double for this session.”

“Okay. Fair is fair. Just make sure you keep your psycho boyfriend out of it next week.”

“Just go,” John sighed, and waited till the man collected his things, and hurried out of the room, banging the door behind him.

Harold felt like his knees would give out soon. He stumbled towards a chair and sagged into it cautiously, looking at John all that while, who seemed to be contemplating something. With more patience than he was feeling, the architect waited for him to speak.

“I was hoping you weren’t here. That you had been a projection; a new creative way of torture by brain had come up with,” he laughed hollowly. “It was effective, I have to say.”

“Why?” Finch asked with horrified incredulity.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” he said sadly.

“No Mr. Reese. What I meant to ask is, why all this? What does this mean? I am afraid to say I am awfully confused right now.”

Reese looked at him in despair, upset that Finch had to make him explain this, and then swallowed.

“It’s my penance.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what a killer I am. You know the things I have done. You really think my subconscious won’t have it out for me? You don’t think these people deserve to take their revenge?”

“I apologize for the language but, that’s bullshit,” Finch protests vehemently.

“Is it?” Reese holds his gaze, and the self-hatred evident in his gaze was enough to break Harold’s heart.

“Oh Mr. Reese.” He tried to reach out and touch John’s face, but he cringed, so he pulled back. “You don’t deserve this. These people are dead.”

“These are my projections. My faces in the street. Even topside, whenever I turn a corner I am afraid to see yet another face of people I have wronged, maimed, killed. At least this way, I know the right people are just exacting their dues.”

“No. I am sorry but that’s unacceptable.”

“It’s not for you to decide.”

“It is. I can’t let you keep doing this. I don’t understand what it is that you are even doing.”

“Just, paying back my debt.”

“These people are already dead John. And you were just doing your duty. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I pulled the trigger. I swung the knife. Their blood is on my hands.” He raised his voice, breath hitching, and then took a calm breath, “I would prefer being alone right now.”

“Mr. Reese,”

“Please Harold.”

“Okay.” Not knowing what else to say, he got up and started walking away. At the door, he turned back to look at John, who had curled into bed, facing away from him.

“Are you going to see him again? This Leon guy?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“You sure you want to know the answer to that Finch?”

He considered this, and then decided that no, he really didn’t. Letting the door shut behind him quietly, he left the apartment. Halfway back to his safe house, he realized he had forgotten to warn John about the danger. Not sure if he could handle his voice right now, not when the hoarse screams were still ringing in his ears, he took out his phone and sent him a text.

It was up to him now. Taking a deep breath, he continued the journey towards home, trying not to accept that this felt like walking away from something.


	2. Chapter 2

Things went back to normal after that, with the exception of the fact that Harold never pushed John to enter the dream as a subject again. He knew better. Reese was as efficient as before, tailing the mark and knowing their every weak point with extreme competence. His performance didn’t waver, his bullet never missed its aim, and not once did he fail to shield and defend the team when the job called for it.

It was as if nothing had changed. For John, he supposed, it hadn’t. He had been doing this for God knows how long. It was only that Harold had found out just now.

To Harold, it felt like as if his world had spun on its axis. He couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn’t help searching John’s face for signs of discomfort, trying to find out what bothered him within and out of the dream. He dreaded to see the pinch of his expressions just before inserting the needle. John’s face did not give much away, he hoarded his emotions, but observation had always been what Harold’s strong suit.

So he saw the minute tightening of Reese’s jaw every time he pulled a trigger on a projection, discerned the conflicted look when he aimed at kneecaps rather than forehead, topside. To his sick fascination, he could detect when Reese would raise his shoulders as if expecting the worst, every time they turned a blind corner, and how he flinched every time someone thanked him.

To his gut wrenching horror, he could also tell when Mr. Reese had gone through another one of his ‘ _sessions_.’ The slow methodical torture left its mark- distinct in the harrowed look on the person’s face- even if it left no physical trace.

The first time John had come to the abandoned train station – their center of operation in between specific jobs- with a coffee in his hand and a tortured look in his eyes, Harold had straightened up suddenly and tried to reach out…

“Mr. Reese, I don’t... “

“Stop.” John had raised his empty hand and taken a deep breath.

“But.”

“No,” He had said with conviction. “We aren’t going to talk about this.”

“I really can’t let you keep doing this.”

“You see, Finch, you don’t have to _let_ me do anything. You don’t own me,” he had spat out angrily, and they had both stared at each other for long minutes, until Finch had nodded, accepting defeat.

“As you wish. Come, we have another potential job.”

And that had been that. Harold tried not to even touch the subject again, just went on feeling more and more troubled with each passing month.

“Why didn’t your projections attack the psychiatrist?” he had asked once, while putting the needle into the arm of their mark, as Reese settled himself, rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t projections usually attack the dreamer?”

If John was shocked by the sudden question, he did not show it. He just muttered, “Yeah. Usually.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“They don’t attack them until they interferes. He never does.” He looked at Finch as if accusing him of something.

“Well I am sorry. But I couldn’t just watch you being shredded, even if that’s what you wanted.”

“You couldn’t, could you?” Beyond everything, John managed to look fond, to Harold’s exasperation. “You are weird that way.” He had said. In response, Finch had jabbed in the needle with extra force. Even that had not made the small smile on John’s face disappear, until his features relaxed into sleep.

So yes.

It was awful, but what Mr. Reese did in his personal time was none of Harold’s business. He reminded himself of this mantra every morning, and tried to shake off the anxiety. Everything was going as well as could be hoped.

And then Mr. Reese disappeared.

* * *

 

48 hours.

48 hours of intensive hacking through security feeds and following every loose end later, he called Detective Carter.

“Carter.”

“Detective. Mr. Reese has been abducted.”

“Yes Finch. You said so the first three times you called,” she sounded exasperated. “Look. I get that you are concerned. But he is a grown man. He can choose to not contact you for a couple of days.”

“No. Not like this. His phone is not just off, it’s destroyed. He isn’t at his house. There is something wrong,” he argued for the fourth time.

“I can’t do anything without proof of foul play. My hands are tied.”

“I know. You said that…”

“Then I would like you to please let me get back to actual work.”

“Which is why I got some. Proof that is. Of foul play. I am emailing you security feed showing two people forcing Mr. Reese into a van on gunpoint.”

“And how did you get your hands on this video?”

“I would rather not say.”

“Figured,” she sounded resigned, but in a fond way.

Agent Joss Carter was Harold and John’s inside person in the police. She did not agree to their methods, but sometimes when they manage to extract some real dirt on people that needed to be behind bars, she appreciated the help. In return, she backed them up when they needed something doing- within reason.

“Please Joss. Mr. Reese is in trouble.”

“I will see what I can do Harold.” She said sincerely, and Harold sighed while turning off the phone.

He had been sitting on the uncomfortable chair of the abandoned train, and been typing and staring at the screen for the last two days, with barely pausing for essential bodily functions in between. He had dozed off a couple of times, with his head uncomfortably placed on the keyboard, his body protesting against the rough treatment, but he didn’t pay it any heed, searching for any clue as to what might have happened to John.

In the end he had hacked into the traffic cameras and followed the footage from when John last left the station, and stalked his path through the video feed, as he stopped for a burger from a stand and then walked aimlessly. After four hours of it, he had finally managed to find what happened, as a car hastily parked next to him, two men came out and hit him on the head to disorient him, and stuffed him into a car on gunpoint.

He had called Agent Carter the next minute.

Now, he wished he could relax and go home to get some sleep, but instead he started running a facial recognition software on the driver who wasn’t wearing a mask. John had been gone for more than forty hours. If someone in dream sharing had him, forty hours could feel like years. He knew that.

In the end, after another six hours, multiple breaches of security which, if caught, would land him in jail, and immense help by Agent Carter later, they had deduced that the people who took John were all ex-CIA, all presumed dead, one of them a woman named Kara Stanton- John’s old partner. Harold sighed in relief at the information, because as bad as that was, it was still better than the alternative.

He guessed that their purpose of kidnapping John was probably in getting information out of him. That helped. It also meant that needed him alive. He traced down every abandoned warehouse across the city, and finally found the one they had most probably held John in, by running the license plate of the car that took Mr. Reese, and finding it parked a couple of blocks away. He was already in the car, when he called Joss to inform her of the development, and she said she would be right there with SWAT team, and to wait outside.

Like hell was he waiting.

Fortunately, he heard sirens when he reached his destination. Parking his car hastily, he ran out as fast as his body allowed, reaching the warehouse doors at the same time as the men in dressed in black knocked it down. A man, dressed in civilian clothes- a detective probably- came to stop him.

“I am sorry sir, but I can’t let you go ahead,” he started saying in polite tone.

“No. I need to go in.”

“It’s an active crime scene. I will have to stop you.”

“You don’t understand. John is in there. He needs help.”

“You will have to wait here. We will help whoever needs it.”

He spotted Agent Carter in the distance and waved his hand, calling out. “Joss. Agent Carter.”

She put her communicator in her belt, and nodded towards him, coming over and putting her hand on the other detective’s arm saying, “I got it.”

“Oh thank God. I need to go in.”

“Harold.” She looked at him compassionately, but stopped him when he moved to enter through the door.

“What?”

“Let the team clear the scene first. Then I will take you in.”

“But…”

“No buts. Let us do our job. Trust me. That’s government trained assassins in there. You would just be a liability. Let them handle it.” She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and he sagged. There was nothing he could do for John at the moment anyway.

The ten minutes it took for Carter to receive the all clear were the longest of Harold’s life. When she motioned him to follow, he forced his battered and tired body to obey him, and moved as fast as he could. Inside, the SWAT team was handcuffing people, and pushing them out. Kara Stanton among then, a bullet wound in her thigh, limping but glaring murder, and along with her three more men, all with some wounds on their person.

They had not gone down without a fight. Harold understood why he had to wait outside, but he sure as hell did not like it.

He followed Carter inside, through dark corridor, and then stopped short. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and found his totem, hoping, wishing _, praying_ to find it smooth for once. For this to be a dream.

The engraved top of it burned Finch’s fingers.

Mr. Reese was suspended from the ceiling in the corner, naked except for a pair of briefs- almost completely soaked in blood now, his arms raised and bound to ropes hanging from hooks, his toes barely touching the floor. Two men were trying to untangle the different binds holding him upright. There were deep gashes on his chest, oozing blood- too much blood. There was a stab wound on his calf, barely missing the femoral artery by Harold’s estimate, and when the people moved to put him down, Harold noticed the lash wounds, too many to count, skin ripped off and bleeding, on his back.

“John. Jesus Christ. John!” Agent Carter suddenly ran towards the people helping Mr. Reese down, but Harold’s feet would not move.

They slowly moved him until he was lying on the ground, in a small pool of his own blood, and someone brought a sheet out from somewhere to cover him. Distantly, Harold noticed that John was shivering. He realized that was a good thing, it meant John was alive, but his brain could not get over the shock yet.

“He is calling for you.” Agent Carter startled him. When had she come to stand next to him, hand on his back?

“What?”

“He keeps calling for you. I don’t think he knows you are here. But ambulance is on the way, and you should speak to him.”

“Oh. Yes of course.” With calm he did not feel, he took the few steps and sat down next to where John’s head was.

“Harold.”

“I am here John.”

“Harold.”

“I am here.”

“Harold…” Finch did not know what to do, so he reached out and held John’s hand, rubbing the bruises on his wrist.

“I am sorry. I am so so sorry. I told them I am sorry. But they won’t listen. I am sorry.” John kept muttering, and Harold’s heart broke.

“I don’t know what I did to you. But I am sorry. I was just following orders. I am sorry. Please. Please.”

_Oh._

John thought this was a dream.

He suddenly took John’s face in his hand and shook him, until he focused his hazy eyes on his.

“Harold,” he said reverently.

“Yes.”                                                                                                                                           

“You came. Again. You always try to save me these days.”

“Listen to me John…”

“They will kill you. They always do. Run. Please, get out of here before they return,” he whispered, his eyes widening and glancing around.

“I am not running Mr. Reese.”

“Please. I can’t see them hurting you again. It’s the worst thing. I can take the pain. It would be over soon.”

Oh how he wished it was true.

“It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream John.” Tears spilled out of his eyes at last, and he tried to keep in the sob. John did not seem to understand the implication though.

“This is nice. Talking to you. They have never let me have this before. Even if it will be snatched away soon. It always is,” John continued.

“Where’s your totem?” he asked suddenly, desperately thinking of a way to break John out of the memory he was stuck in.

“What?”

“Your totem Mr. Reese.” Finally, John looked confused. He looked around in search, as if surprised he couldn’t just summon the totem at will, and Harold looked at Agent Carter.

“Joss. Can you please find John’s belongings?”

“It’s hardly the time…” She started saying.

“Please-” he interrupted. “It’s important.”

A few minutes later, they brought John’s clothes from the corner of the warehouse. Harold put them in front of him, and weak with blood loss, John reached for his jean’s pocket. Some awareness had started to register in his mind but so had the pain.

Harold knew the exact moment John realized this was not a dream. His shaking body froze, and then jolted in shock, as he took out a bullet out from the pocket. He stared at it for a few moments, and then collapsed, letting it fall from his fingers. His frame was trembling.

“Damn,” He enunciated, voice weak.

“I am so sorry.” Harold couldn’t help apologizing. “I did not realize it sooner. I couldn’t be here sooner. I am so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” John, now that he knew there wasn’t going to be end from this any time soon, looked like he had lost the power to stay conscious.

“Ambulance would be here soon John,” he said compulsively, and held John’s hand, as he blinked in and out of consciousness. “You can sleep. I am here.”

* * *

 John woke up 16 hours later. Harold was sitting by his side. He had barely left. He had faked documents showing him as John’s partner so they won’t make him leave.

Only a few hours after John was brought in the ER, the doctors had declared him out of danger. He had lost a lot of blood, and might not have survived if they had brought him a couple of hours later. Some of the wounds would scar but nothing fatal. Harold had felt he would collapse because of the relief. A few hours ago, the nurse had arranged a makeshift bed in the room where John was, so Harold could lie down for a few hours, and he had… but sleep eluded him. So he stared at John’s sleeping form, wondering if he was dreaming, and if those were pleasant dreams. Wondering if John ever had pleasant dreams at all.

He was up and in the chair, holding John’s hand, the moment he saw him stirring.

Mr. Reese blinked awake, and tried to sit up in shock, abandoning the movement with a groan of pain when his wounds pulled. He lay back down and glanced around, noticing where he was, and finally letting his eyes meet Harold’s, swiping down to see his hand being enfolded in both of Finch’s.

“Dream?” he wondered aloud.

In response, Harold just glanced at the bedside table, where he had made sure the nurse had placed the bullet. He had not touched John’s totem. There were some lines he wasn’t willing to cross.

John reached forward without hesitation, only a mere flinch of pain showing on his face, and closed his fingers around the bronze shot. He relaxed back in bed and exhaling softly.

“Not a dream,” he spoke the ceiling. Harold stayed quiet, waiting for John to process everything.

“Well, that was remarkably stupid.” John tried to stretch his lips into a facsimile of a smile.

“Yes. Yes it was Mr. Reese.” He tried to play along, making the mood lighter, but his hand tightened around John’s fingers, making sure he was alive and real.

After silence of a few minutes, Reese quietly said, “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Harold protested.

“Yes I do. And you know it.”

“It was no trouble. I would go through it many times, if it means saving you.”

“You can’t save me.” John looked at the ceiling and tried to pull his hand away. He wasn’t talking about the rescue and they both knew it.

“Maybe I can’t. But I will sure as hell try.” Finch tightened his hold, lifting John’s hand and pressing his lips against it fiercely. He won’t let John go down this path- not without a fight.

“Finch…”

“John,” Harold cut in. “You were tortured to within an inch of your life, and you didn’t fight back. You didn’t even consider fighting back. That’s dangerous and needs to stop.”

“I understand if you don’t want to work with me anymore.”

“Don’t insult me Mr. Reese,” he snapped. “You are confusing dreams and reality, and that happens to the best of us. It’s what you are willing to do, willing to fight for, in both the situations that matters.”

“I can’t fight my own subconscious Finch.” He looked at Finch as if he was the one being ridiculous.

“How would you know if you have never even tried it?” Harold argued, and held John’s gaze. Something in his eyes must have shown John how determined he was, how much he meant it, because the protest in them died.

“You need to forgive yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Then let me help you. Let me try. Please,” he begged.

For a while it looked like John won’t reply, because he turned away and gazed at ceiling. Before Finch could give up and accept defeat… John gave a tiny nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get better after this. I promise. Let me know what you thought? :D Pretty please.


	3. Chapter 3

  _“What is this place? A memory?” John asked, his whisper strangely loud in the eerie dream-like feel of the place._

_“Close. But not exactly. This place doesn’t exist,” Finch replied, shuffling up a flight of stairs as John followed, moving over piles of books lying strewn across the floor, observing the faded wall length paintings on the walls._

_“A construct then., John nodded._

_“No," the architect disagreed, “It’s a fantasy. A place I had built in my mind long before dream-sharing existed.”_

_“I like it. It feels… safe.”_

_“It does, doesn’t it? It has to, considering I envisioned it to feel precisely that.”_

_“You find libraries safe?”_

_“Of course. Hiding in books is easy.” Finch looked back at him with a tender smile. He looked strangely young, and happier. He always did, in dreams, but this seemed different._

_“How do you know my subconscious won’t find us?”_

_“It will, eventually," Harold replied, matter of fact, and John stiffened. “But I had Fusco cook up a modified batch of Somnacin. It would slow down the projections some. And I would need your help for the rest of it.”_

_“How can I help?”_

_“Don’t think about them.” He had reached a room that had a table and a chair, with multiple keyboards and screens, and rows of bookshelves. He turned and gave John a confident look and gestured with open arms. “Explore. Read. We only have an hour. Hopefully, the projections will stay away till then.”_

_“You aren’t afraid that my projections might ruin your safe place.”_

_“No,” he said with aching sincerity. “And if they did, it’s worth it.”_

_At loss for words, John started looking through the place, running his hand on spines of books that seemed extremely old… First editions probably. He opened one- usually in dreams, the text wasn’t there. But he was surprised to find that the book he was holding- adventures of Huckleberry Finn, had pages after pages of accurate text. Finch, who was typing on a keyboard, stretched back and noticed him staring._

_“I remember books. It’s my dream. Almost all of these books will have text… or as much of it as I remember,” he said sheepishly, and John was impressed. He browsed through them, taking out and leafing through the particularly worn ones- thinking correctly that they were Finch’s favorites. In one of the books, he found picture of Harold with another guy, impossibly young and smiling the way he had never seen Harold smile before; carefree. He felt a knot in his throat when he realized that this was very personal, and Finch was allowing him access to it all, willingly, despite how private a person he was._

_He liked the library. It had a strange homely feel to it. Dreams usually felt real, but something about this- and it might be the drug- made it clear it wasn’t reality. And yet it did not feel wrong._

_He settled into a couch with a book- a Stephen King- and tried to read, but his mind kept wandering back to the projections, startling at the sound of keys striking keyboard, scared that the projections had caught up and would harm Harold. This was Harold’s haven. He would loathe to ruin it._

_After what was about fifty minutes of being in the dream, he heard someone banging on the door below. He sat up straighter and thought of a gun, moving to draw it, and shoot himself out of the dream… but before he could reach for it, he felt a weight settle into his lap._

_“Harold what are you…” He was shocked to notice that the architect was perched on his thigh, moving his hand to place it on his shoulders. It took him completely off guard when Finch bent forward and placed a soft chaste kiss on his lips, one hand moving to his nape, running his fingers through John’s hair._

_“What?” Reese opened his mouth in amazement._

_Harold smiled, “To throw off the projections.” In a distance, John could hear Edith Piaf playing. The dream was almost over._

_“There are no projections here yet.” John felt compelled to point out._

_“But they are always,” Harold tapped his forehead, “Here.”_

* * *

 

_“Mr. Reese,” Finch asked, looking around, noticing a gelato in his hand, “Where exactly are we?”_

_“Venice,” John said, pleased with himself._

_“I am sorry but this looks nothing like Venice.” Harold cursed himself when John’s smiled diminished at that._

_“Well, not all of us have been everywhere in the world, have we?” He shrugged, “So this is my Venice.”_

_Finch looked around, and breathed in the fresh air that one could never feel in the actual place, see the bright clean pavements and water that was clear and blue. There were people riding into gondolas and a beautiful melody was playing somewhere._

_“It’s beautiful,” he declared. It really was; so much better than the real thing._

_Mr. Reese beamed, and then licked a stripe up his ice cream, reaching with his other hand to entwine it with Harold’s._

* * *

They were both sitting at the station. There was no new job. Shaw had popped in for a bit, and had left a while back. John was musing about something she had said,

“Finch?”

“Hmm,” he answered, distracted.

“How did you stumble into the dream-sharing?”

Finch stopped typing on the keyboard, and swung around to face him. “Why are you asking?”

“Just… Shaw mentioned something. Said she was being used as a lab rat while testing the PASIV in the initial stages. They taught her all the tricks and a million and one ways of killing someone, without actually killing someone. Afterwards, they tried to eliminate all of the people involved in the project, but had apparently taught her too well. She was one of the very few that survived and managed to escape.”

“Yes. I heard what she said,” John couldn’t have missed the dismissal in Finch’s tone even if he had tried.

“I am sorry if it’s a sensitive topic. I was just curious,” he said, placating.

Finch sighed, and then took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry. That was rather rude of me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I will go first. Even though you know the story, because you are a part of it.” He smiled at the stunned look on Finch’s face. “After the disaster that was Ordos, I was presumed dead, and for a while I actually considered making that a reality. I didn’t have anything better to do, and then you showed up and offered me a job.”

“I did not know you were unfamiliar to dream sharing before that!”

“I won’t say unfamiliar. Let’s just say I once tried the dream sharing dens- you know, the ones where many people share the same dream for hours? I was trying to escape from my own mind. It was not pretty.” John laughed at the bemused expression on Harold’s face.

“How did the other dreamers react to that?” Finch asked, morbidly curious.

“Well. I have a lifetime ban at those places," John shrugged, and then laughed when he noticed how horrified Harold looked at that.

“Mr. Reese, I…” Finch started, and then stopped short. “It’s a painful memory,” he admitted quietly.

“You will tell me someday right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” John said, hiding his smile behind the newspaper he was holding. “I can wait.”

* * *

 

_“So you bring me to Rome and then make me sit in a small shop.”_

_“It’s Gianni’s. The best Italian tailor in all of Rome. Please appear more excited about the prospect.”_

_“What’s wrong with what I usually wear?”_

_“What’s the difference between cheap vodka and a Johnny Walker?”_

_“Touché”_

_At that moment, a beautiful Italian girl came out of the backroom and said, “Mr. John Reese?” In thick accent. When John nodded she said, “They are ready for taking your measurements.”_

_“You know you won’t get to see me wearing it, in just half hour, right?”_

_“It’s a dream Mr. Reese. Anything can happen.”_

_John laughed at the bemused expression on Harold’s face, and quickly ducked and kissed the top of his hair, before heading into dressing room. His projections would figure it out soon, but hopefully not before the timer ran out._

* * *

 " _A boat?” Harold asked, as he felt the salty air slap his face._

_“Always wanted to own one.” John stood at the helm, staring out in the sea. Harold joined him, their shoulders brushing._

* * *

“I created it,” Harold announced one day, all of a sudden, when they came out of a dream.

“Created what?”

“PASIV.”

“Oh.” John waited, because this was important, and he wanted to let Harold speak about it on his own terms.

“Yeah. Me and my best friend, Nathan. We worked on it for years. The experimental group containing Miss Shaw, was one of the many that were employed. We wanted to change the future.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Except one day, the government closed down our project and told us to go on an extended leave. They confiscated all of our research data. We were both appalled but decided to let it slide, going on a holiday the agency had arranged for us as a thank you and an apology.”

Finch looked lost for a few minutes, and John couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t reach out and hold Harold’s hand in both of his. When he did, the architect looked at him, startled out of the painful memory.

“They blew up the ferry. I was late. Nathan was standing across from me, waving me to hurry up. That’s the last I remember seeing my friend, smiling and hopeful.”

“Those bastards.” The venom in John’s tone is genuine. He knew how the government treated its assets once they lost their value.

“Yeah.” Harold seemed to be reliving a horrible memory, and John regrets every bringing up the topic.  “Later I realized they also eliminated everyone involved in the testing. So you see John, you aren’t the only one with blood on your hands.”

John could say nothing other than tighten his grip on Finch’s hand, letting him know he was there for him. “I am sorry,” he whispered.

“It was a long time ago.” Shaking his head, and gathering himself, Harold smiled shakily. ”So, in retaliation, I did the only thing I could. I stole a PASIV, and decided to have as much fun with it as I wanted. I might have invented, or at least perfected, the criminal side of it.” He sounded so adorably smug about it, that John laughed.

“Quite the rebel, aren’t we?”

“You bet.” Harold raised his eyebrows, and John realized he was a goner.

* * *

_Harold was moving on top of him, soft sheets on his back and all he could do was hold on. There was no other thought in his head other than how good it felt to be inside Harold, to run his hands up his sweat slick skin, to feel the warmth emanating from his body and bask in his moans and sighs. He did not have enough brain cells remaining to even remember he had something to be scared of._

* * *

_“Is this supposed to be Paris?”_

_“Well, there is Eiffel Tower, isn’t there?”_

_“Yes. In completely wrong place.” Harold laughed, seeming thoroughly entertained._

_John pouted and Harold hurried to lace their fingers together. “I think I like it when you are the dreamer more. It’s wonderful to see things from your perspective.”_

_“I know you aren’t trying to be patronizing. But you are failing.”_

_“One day, I would love to take you to these places.” Harold decided. Suddenly, two girls interrupted them, and pointed towards the camera hanging around John’s neck._

_“Do you want us to take your picture? You two make a gorgeous couple.” One of them asked. Harold flushed scarlet and John just threw his head back and laughed._

_“What? They are my subconscious after all.” Harold mumbled. John said nothing other than handing over his camera._

* * *

They continued doing that for weeks, and then it turned into months. Not every day, sometimes not even every week, but whenever they could, Harold took him to places he had been, and places he had created just for John, using the modified somnacin; in return, John dreamt and took them to places he wished he had seen, and through his rare good memories. Sometimes in the start, projections came too close, and once they managed to shoot John before the timer ran out, but lately that had started happening less and less. For the last month, they had not even heard from the projections, John too wrapped into feeling what being in Harold’s company made him feel.

So while they were walking home one day, towards John’s apartment for another one of the sessions, John found it completely natural to ask.

“Can we do it longer this time?”

Harold stopped in his tracks. His face had the deer in headlights expressions that startled John. He realized what had happened when Harold reached into his pocket, probably fiddling with his totem.

“I don’t think that would be wise Mr. Reese.”

“Oh come on. I think I know how to separate dreams from reality.”

“I am sure you do,” Harold swallowed, and then looked at him miserably, “But I am afraid I might forget. I am afraid I might want to.”

And _oh_. John had been an idiot. He moved to stand in front of Harold and cupped his face. Harold’s eyes widened and John moved and pressed their lips together, in a first actual kiss topside, and he was rewarded with a gratifying moan and desperately welcome reciprocation.

* * *

  _Sunlight was filtering in through white curtains, the dust dancing in the rays. John lay in bed, limbs heavy, body and heart both sated by marathon sex they had just had, Finch thrusting into him with powerful strokes and unerring aim, making him scream out his orgasm. They barely did more than just kiss in real life, but over the last few weeks, whenever they went under, impatient fingers suddenly tore at clothes and frantic bodies sought relief desperately, only calming down when they were completely intertwined._

_John did not know how this was supposed to help with how his projections honed in on him, but he was no longer terrified of them. He knew Harold probably had more planned in that big beautiful head of his, and was just waiting for John to make up his mind._

_He ran his fingers through Finch’s hair, where he was lying with his head on his chest, and muttered._

_“Okay.”_

_“Hmm?” Finch questioned sleepily._

_“I said okay. I am ready. “_

_“You sure?” Finch sat up and looked at him, eyes sharp._

_“Yeah. I am sure. I want to face them.”_

_Finch beamed at him, proud, and John thought that he would face any number of horrifying things if it meant that this look on Harold’s face would always stay._

* * *

  _Finch was almost in exactly the same position as Mr. Reese was the first time Finch had found him in his dream. His arms and legs were tied, and his torso secured on a steel chair, that was bolted to the ground. There was a cloth stuffed into his mouth as a gag, and he had to struggle to suck in air through it. Panic tried to claw its way up Finch’s spine but he resolutely pushed it down._

_Mr. Reese would come for him._

_The door opened in front of him, and a man with his face covered with a mask entered. He looked at him with boredom, and Harold realized that torturing him wasn’t the point. He was bait. The man moved to the periphery of Harold’s vision and moved things around, clattering sounds the only thing Harold could hear and it built in the dreadful anticipation. When the man come to stand in front of him again, his eyes were impassive, but his hand was holding a plier._

_‘Don’t panic,’ Harold told himself, ‘Mr. Reese would be here soon.’_

_His captor moved his hand and almost lazily grasped the nail of Harold’s little finger in the plier, and pulled. A scream tried to rip out of Harold’s mouth, suffocating inside the makeshift gag. The pain startling and intense, his fingernail removed from the root, his finger bleeding. The torturer looked at the nail curiously and then shook the device, letting the blood and the skin fall away._

_Harold was panting. He wanted a way out. The dream would only last half an hour, but half an hour of purposeful torture was not something Harold could bear. The man moved the plier toward his ring finger and he started struggling in his binds, trying to move away. To his despair, he was tied to securely._

_He tried to calm his racing heart down, tried to breathe. John would come. John would definitely come. Why wasn’t he here yet?_

_Just when he steeled himself feeling the beginnings of an agonizing pull, he heard it._

_Click. Click._

_And the body in front of him collapsed on the floor. Not realizing he had closed his eyes, he opened them and saw John standing in front of him, a silenced gun in his hand, and a grim expression on his face. He looked around, clenched his jaw, and then quickly bent down and got rid of Harold’s bindings. He removed the gag with aching tenderness, and rubbed his fingers across Harold’s face, wiping away the tears. Finch had not even realized he was crying._

_“I am so sorry.”_

_“No harm down.” Harold’s voice was hoarse, but confident. He quickly got up, refused to look at the table where he was sure different torture instruments lay, and thought up a first aid box on the side of the room. Quickly going there he pulled out a gauze and wrapped his bleeding finger in it. Only then did he turn and look at John, who was staring at him in sorrow._

_“Oh John. This is nothing. And it would be over in a little over twenty minutes.”_

_Mr. Reese just nodded, and then they heard the sounds of gunfire and screams from the outside. Harold looked at John and asked, “What do you need?”_

_“Weapons," he said grimly._

_“Alright.” Harold bent the fabric of dream, and there suddenly was a locker on the wall next to John. Finch nodded at it, and John opened it, picking up different guns, a shotgun, and multiple grenades._

_“Alright. Let’s get out of here.”_

_Mr. Reese kicked open the door, and threw a smoke grenade out. They ducked out of the room, listening to sound of footsteps and avoiding them. After ten minutes of hide and seek they were suddenly faced with two boys, barely out of their teens, standing in front of them with their weapons raised._

_“Stop,” one of them said._

_“Surrender yourself. There is no way out.”_

_John stopped, his gun hand raised but slowly stooping. He threw a glance at Harold in misery, and he knew, without being told, that John recognized these boys. They were his past._

_“Please let us go,” John said wretchedly to them. “I don’t want to shoot you.” And then he swallowed and said in barely a whisper. “Again.”_

_The projection seemed to not have heard him, moving forward, and John looked at Harold one more time before lowering the gun and shooting them in the kneecaps. With loud screams, they fell on ground, and John ran, motioning Finch to follow him._

_They hid in an empty room for a while, and when the projections hunted them down, Harold created a door on the other side and they sneaked out. Whenever they were encountered by someone suddenly, John always hesitated, but always hit them somewhere non vital and got out of there. By the time they could hear the music, the soft melody of Edith Piaf warning them that the dream was almost over, they were standing with their back to a wall, hiding. Both of them had multiple wounds on their person, John supporting a bullet wound to his shoulder. And yet… both of them were alive. The dream collapsed around them as they both stared at each other._

They came to in John’s apartment, and it felt like a dream. The room was bright, the windows blind open and sunlight giving the feel of eerie beauty. They were both lying in soft bed, head on pillows, and staring at the ceiling. Harold could not even feel any pain from his back. He reached into his pocket and knew, before even touching the totem, that this was reality, even if it felt too perfect for that.

He turned and noticed that John was lying still as a statue, his breath stuttering every now and then, coming out faster than normal for someone like him. Harold kept quiet and gave him the time to process what had happened. This was a big moment for John. He had fought back, for the first time in maybe forever.

Quietly, he removed the IV line from his arm and applied a Band-Aid. John did not even flinch when he did the same to him. Pulling up the covers, he snuggled comfortably and rested his cheek on John’s chest, listening to his fast beating heart slow down with every passing minute. John’s hand came to rest on his clothed back, moving up and soothingly, and Harold let out a quiet sigh of contentment.

Harold could not tell how much time had passed, but John spoke at last. A quiet, “I saved you.”

Finch smiled, and nodded into John’s chest, “You saved yourself.”

“Same thing.” The awe in his voice made Harold’s heart melt.

He let John enjoy the moment for a while longer. Then he shuffled, looking at his pleased face and asked, “Again?”

John met his gaze, and there was worshipful adoration in his eyes.

“Yes. But later. Tomorrow maybe.” He turned, so that Harold was lying on his back now, with Reese’s face hovering above his. Reese moved and kissed him, saying “Right now, I want to make love to you.”

Harold breathed out in quiet pleasure. The fact that John wanted him would never fail to make his stomach flutter. He asked breathlessly, “Mexico then?” his hands blindly reaching out for PASIV as John mouthed a trail of kisses on his jaw.

“No,” he said, as he bit Harold’s earlobe and then nuzzled his shoulder. “No dreaming. Like this. Just like this,"he whimpered and sank his teeth in the soft skin of Harold's neck.

Harold relaxed, letting himself melt into the sheets, and let John make a mess of him. Anything. Just like this. Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I am so very proud of this story. It was a struggle. I tried new things. But I am happy with the result. If you had even half as much fun reading it as i did writing it... leave reviews, pretty please. Reviews give me life. and the will to keep writing.

**Author's Note:**

> I had SO MUCH fun writing this one. It might be my fav thing to have ever written. Please let me know what you think of this :D.


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